


Falling Slowly

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Early Days, F/M, Friendship, Mutually Unrequited, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:11:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: He's never known someone like her before. He can't imagine any possibility other than giving her his all.





	

_ Commanding. _

It’s a good word, at least to him- one doesn’t just command troops, or a starship; one also commands things like attention, or respect, both of which Janeway does in spades.

Chakotay rolls over in his bunk, thrusting the blanket down to his waist. Starships are kept chilly as a rule to preserve energy, but his Maquis ship had creaky heaters and leaky insulation, and he’s always run hot. His new quarters feel downright stifling at times, and he wishes he could open a window, but, well. Space. 

He rolls over again, trying to think of another word.  _ Controlling _ , he supposes, and probably some people would apply it to her, but he doesn’t think it’s right.  _ In control _ , certainly, but not  _ controlling _ .  _ Convincing  _ works, though.  _ Cooperative _ , to an extent. He’s only known her a month, but she’s more interested in getting her way through cooperation than through force, though she’s certainly not afraid to pull rank or phasers when needed.  _ Collaborative _ , too, in the same vein- she’d rather have everyone working toward a common goal than competing with each other, though  _ competitive  _ is certainly another word that could be applied. He smiles into the darkness, his teeth glinting in the low light of the stars. It didn’t take more than about five minutes figure that one out, nor its companion,  _ courageous _ . 

He’d trusted her from the moment he met her, in spite of his best instincts - her face on the view screen was honest and determined, willing to work with the man she’d been sent to capture without a moment’s hesitation if the goal was to get their people back. He’d been so  _ angry _ ; angry with Starfleet, angry with the Cardassians, angry with whatever crazy alien had dragged them halfway across the galaxy on a whim. Angry with Tuvok, when he learned of his deception, and even angrier when he’d seen Paris on the bridge. She’d stepped between them without a hint of hesitation, taking him to task and telling him exactly what she expected from him. 

He thinks that’s the moment he’d surrendered. Not, as some of his former (or hell, current) colleagues might think, out of fear or weakness, but instead out of the innate recognition in his spirit of a leader he can trust. A leader who will protect him and his people, who will stop at nothing to right wrongs and heal wounds and rescue those in distress and, when all is said and done, take them all back home. 

_ Compassionate _ .

Another word for her, he thinks, as he swings his legs off the bed and sits up, giving up on elusive sleep for the moment. He strips off his shirt and pads barefoot across the darkened room to the replicator. He’s never met someone with her charisma before, her sheer force of presence. He’s carried away by it, can hardly keep his senses sometimes, a dangerous thing for a man in his position- a former rebel charged with backing up her authority, regardless of circumstance.

“Herbal tea, warm,” he says, and the machine blinks cheerfully at him as it materializes a lightly steaming cup, fragrant with spice. He takes it, careful not to slosh as he makes his way over to the far wall and settles down against it, the heated skin of his back puckering at the touch of the cold metal. He sits like this sometimes, when he can’t sleep, his back against the wall he shares with her, imagining that he can hear her through the sound-proof bulkhead, can feel her presence just on the other side of the wall. Maybe she’s sitting there too, mirroring him, awake in the unending night of space, unable to force her circadian rhythms to the artificiality of the duty roster. 

_ *blerp-bzulp* _

His communicator chirps from across the room, and he jumps in surprise, the tea splashing over the rim of his cup and onto his sleep pants. 

“Go ahead,” he responds into the empty room, half-curious, half-concerned. He can’t think of many reasons for anyone to comm him at two in the morning unless something’s gone wrong.

“Commander?” she says, her voice cautious, “did I wake you?”

He exhales. Not an emergency, then, she’d lead with that.

“No, Captain. I was awake. Is anything the matter?”

“No,” she says quickly, her voice light, casual, at odds with the hour. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

He waits, letting the silence drag out. She doesn’t like silence, he’s learned this too, is compelled to fill it with ideas, information.

“I just…” she mumbles something unintelligible, takes an audible breath. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought maybe… you couldn’t either.”

The tea is cooling, but he takes a sip. Where is she, he wonders, in the room next to his? Is she lying in bed, hair spread out on the pillow as she talks to him? Sitting in one of her chairs, still in her uniform?

“...Commander?”

“Chakotay,” he replies automatically,  “no. I couldn’t sleep.”

She sighs softly, the comm faithfully rendering the quiet noise, and he thinks of her in loose pants and a shirt, leaning against the bulkhead behind him. 

“This was a bad idea,” she says, decision in her tone. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Commander.”

“ _ Wait _ ,” he says, putting his hand out as though she’d see it, as though she’s really here with him. “Wait. What did you need?”

There’s a long pause again, and he wonders for a moment if she closed the connection without hearing him. 

“Company, I guess,” she says finally, and he nods. 

“Would you like me to come over?” he asks, “It’s a short commute,” he adds, and chuckles. 

“No,” she says, but he can hear the amusement in her tone. “No, that’s alright, but maybe…”

“Maybe?” he prompts after a moment.

“...maybe we could just talk?” Her voice is hesitant, and this is a side of her he hasn’t met yet. It’s as captivating as all the others, he thinks, and smiles.  _ Captivating _ .

“What would you like to talk about, Captain?” he asks, resettling himself against the wall and taking another drink of his tea.

“Kathryn,” she says firmly, and he can’t help the skip his heart gives in his chest. It’s the first time she’s asked him to use her name, and the intimacy of it thrills him here, sparking a small glow at the center of his chest that kindles softly, fed by the echoes of her voice in his darkened quarters. 

“Kathryn,” he repeats softly, turning the word around in his mouth, feeling how the shape of it fills the space between tongue and teeth. 

He hears her shift through the comm link, the sound of fabric on skin. Is her hair up or down, he wonders. Does she braid it tightly for bed like his sister? How far down her back does it fall when it’s not tied into that impenetrable up-do?

“Are you satisfied with the duty roster?” she asks, and he shakes his head in amusement. He’s never known her to prevaricate. “Did you have any changes to suggest?”

“I think it’s fine,” he replies easily. “I noticed you’re maintaining the split of the Maquis leadership across all three shifts.”

“I think it prudent, at least for now,” she says carefully, but with no room for argument, and he shrugs.

“I think you’re right. I have no objections,” he answers calmly, “particularly as regards Seska and a few others. They are loyal to me, so far as I know, but I think not yet to you.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she says wryly, and he smiles at her tone. How she manages to be amused at the general ongoing threat of mutiny is beyond him, but he appreciates it. “And your quarters, Co… Chakotay? How are they suiting?”

“Well,” he says rubbing a hand over his head, “I think I liked my ship better. This one’s a little impersonal.” He can almost feel her bristle across the comm link at the very idea of her ship being inferior to any other, and barely keeps from laughing. “But I’m very comfortable, thank you.”

“I trust you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve them,” she says, and he bites his tongue. _Sit in them_ , he wants to say, _be here with me._ _Get your scent on the couch, rearrange the tchotchkes on the shelf, leave some mark of your presence in my space. Treat it as your own, treat_ me _as your own._

“I will,” he says, and the silence holds between them. She shuffles again after a minute, two, have passed, and he begins to worry she’ll break the link, so he asks, “how are you holding up, Captain?”, and listens as she tries to decide how to respond. 

“Kathryn,” she says again finally, and he nods. “I’m holding up fine.”

“Good,” he says, and waits. She rustles around again, and he amuses himself with the thought of her sitting through his grandfather’s meditation drills as a child. Hopeless, he thinks fondly, though she’d probably have gone on to master them by dint of sheer stubbornness. 

Finally she clears her throat, and he sits up expectantly, setting the empty cup aside.

“Do you think we’ll make it back?” she asks, her voice low and stilted. “Home? To Earth?”

“I’m not from Earth,” he answers without thinking, then frowns. What a dumb thing to say. “But yes. I think we’ll make it back.”

“I forget,” she says, and pauses. “I forget you haven’t always been with me. Only a few weeks, and already you seem indispensable.” 

He sucks air silently in through his teeth. It’s not all in his head then, this connection between them, this sense of rightness, of belonging. He tries to think of something to say to break the tension that’s sprung up suddenly, pooling in the atoms of the wall.

“Do  _ you  _ think we’ll get back?” He asks, running a hand through his hair. Of course she does, he decides; she’s fully confident of it, has been since the moment they all realized exactly how far they are from the Alpha quadrant. 

Silence answers him.

“I don’t know,” she says finally, her voice weary. “Most of the time, yes. I don’t let myself believe anything else. The crew needs me to believe it, so I do. But at night…” her voice trails off, and he wants to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, to tell her what a good job she’s doing, how much he believes in her, how much they all trust her, adore her, revere her. “It’s a long way away,” she finishes.

He’s silent for a moment, considering what to say. She will not want platitudes he thinks, she does not deal in fantasies or small comforting lies. At the same time, he feels certain that she would not be telling him this if she weren’t in some way seeking his reassurance. 

Honesty, he decides. It’s the best he can do for her, to be honest with her, always.

“You will get us home,” he says simply, letting the surety of his belief ground his voice.

She laughs. “Such faith,” she says, “in such little time.”

The metal wall behind him has warmed against his shoulder blades, and the shrug he makes raises goosebumps on his skin as it touches the cooler metal higher up. 

“You are the most capable, the most confident, the most… compelling captain I’ve ever met,” he says. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt you, at all. What you said you’d do, you’ve done; what you say you will do, I believe you’ll succeed in.”

The silence stretches out long between them, long and pregnant with things unsaid. He turns over, kneeling up on the thin carpet and pressing his hand flat on the wall between their quarters.

“Chakotay,” she says finally, and her voice is thick, and no words follow. He lays his cheek against the cool metal and closes his eyes.

“Kathryn,” he murmurs, then continues more firmly. “Wherever we go, whatever we do- I will be with you.” He presses his fingers to the metal, digging in. “Whether we die here, thousands of light years from home, or whether we make it back tomorrow- I will be with you. I will trust you, I will support you, I will do  _ everything  _ in my power.” He draws a breath, a little taken aback by his own sudden fervor, and lets his words fall into the quiet of the room. “Whatever happens… I’ll be your friend.”

She says nothing, and he’s struck with the sudden certainty that he’s stepped too far, overplayed his hand. He bites his lip, praying silently that he hasn’t ruined this thing between them before it’s even had the chance to be tested. 

“Chakotay,” she whispers, and he can’t find the voice to answer. “ _ Thank you _ ,” she says, “...thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, “any time.” 

“I’ll take you up on that,” she answers, sounding almost surprised at her own sincerity. “But another day. Good night, Chakotay.” Her voice is firm now; he is dismissed.

“Good night,” he answers, “sleep well, Kathryn.”

His communicator burbles off, and he slides back down to the floor, letting his head thunk hard against the bulkhead. 

“Point this boat home,” he says quietly into the silent small hours, letting his eyes fall shut. He can picture perfectly her face on the viewscreen those few short weeks ago,. “We’ve still got time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a silly thing I've had knocking around for a bit. Finally wrapped it up. Thanks as always to the_deep_magic for the beta, but also thanks to @baronvonchop for the encouragement. :)
> 
> This is based on a song (I know, we were all supposed to get over song!fic years ago, whatever) that I love a lot, and absolutely hear as J/C, and as early on, too. *sigh* You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMD66iv2vyg) and read the lyrics [here](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Todooesprdocgdefsaxagdeiuvu?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#).


End file.
